


Your Name on My Palm, My Heart in Your Hands

by ambiguous_sanskars



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Christmas, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe and Nicky tell Nile how they confessed their love for each other, Kissing, M/M, a little bit of angst maybe?, and pining, body art (mehendi), but that's all in the distant past, ends Very Soft, them being oblivious idiots etc. etc., vague religion mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28312329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguous_sanskars/pseuds/ambiguous_sanskars
Summary: Nicky rolled down the end of the mehendi tube and got to work. Several minutes passed in silence - it was like meditation, Nicky thought. He could get lost in this, the warm gold of the mehendi tube in his hand, Joe’s pulse beneath his fingertips as Nicky held his palm down, the cooling trail of paste the tip left behind as it scraped against Joe’s skin.“Amore?” Joe asked.“Mhm?”“This isn’t a design request per se, but you’re going to do the thing, right?”
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 193





	Your Name on My Palm, My Heart in Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it! And of course happy holidays to everyone in general! Can I offer you some more TOG fluff in this usually joyful but maybe especially trying time?
> 
>  _Very_ tangentially inspired by this Tumblr post by @ngoveronicas: https://ngoveronicas.tumblr.com/post/637437742542929920/
> 
> Translations:  
> ya shams (Arabic) - my sun  
> ya amar (Arabic) - my moon  
> ya qalbi (Arabic) - my heart  
> ammi (Arabic) - mother  
> parli italiano, vero? (Italian) - you speak Italian, right?  
> perdonami (Italian) - forgive me  
> cazzo (Italian) - fuck
> 
> CW: A lot of multiculturalism, because I come from an interfaith family and all the traditions sort of blend together. Atheists/non-Christians participating in Christmas as a cultural holiday. (No offense is ever meant to any group or community! If anyone finds anything hurtful or insensitive, please let me know and I will take care of it asap.)

“Mm, okay. This is done. There we go, gently. Now your other hand.”

Nicky’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he carefully shifted Joe’s left arm to the side. Joe placed his right hand on the table, palm up, in front of Nicky. 

“That was fast, _amore_.”

“Don’t mock, Joe. It’s been the better part of an hour.”

“I’m not! 45 minutes for my whole hand and forearm is pretty fast!”

Nicky’s mouth curved up in a half-smile as he pushed Joe’s sleeve up past the elbow. He picked up the mehendi cone, wiping the tip on the side of his own thumb.

“Any specific requests for this side?”

“Nope. I told you, anything you want. I trust your creative judgment.”

“Really?” Nicky laughed. “You, the renowned artist, trust _my_ judgment?”

Joe looked offended. “Of course! This hand turned out beautiful. Look at it - no, really, look at it as if it wasn’t your own work - it’s stunning!”

“Thank you, _hayati_.”

Nicky rolled down the end of the mehendi tube and got to work. Several minutes passed in silence - it was like meditation, Nicky thought. He could get lost in this, the warm gold of the mehendi tube in his hand, Joe’s pulse beneath his fingertips as Nicky held his palm down, the cooling trail of paste the tip left behind as it scraped against Joe’s skin.

“ _Amore_?”

“Mhm?”

“This isn’t a design request per se, but you’re going to do the thing, right?”

Nicky smiled internally, making the snap decision to be an asshole. “What thing, love?”

“You know.”

“I’m not sure I do, actually.”

“Nicky!”

At that, Nicky cracked, unable to stop a chuckle as it burst out of him. He paused to lean forward and kiss Joe on the nose. Joe wrinkled his nose in response, looking away petulantly. 

“Joe, _ya shams_ , of course I’ll do it. Now please stop sulking. It’s Christmas morning.”

Joe turned back to him with a glowing smile. “Merry Christmas, Nicolò.”

“Merry Christmas, my all. For the fifth time today.”

“It’s only one day a year! I can say it as many times as I want.”

“Of course.” Nicky directed his attention back to Joe’s hand, continuing his careful ministrations with the mehendi cone.

That was how Nile found them a few minutes later, when she climbed down the stairs, yawning. Nicky sat at one end of the dining table, and Joe sat perpendicular to him, both hands splayed out palm up on the surface. Joe’s left hand was covered in intricate patterns done with a dark green paste, and Nicky was devotedly repeating the process on the right one.

“Good morning, Nile,” Joe called as soon as he saw her. “Merry Christmas!”

She smiled sleepily. “Merry Christmas, you guys. What’s going on?”

“Nicky’s doing my mehendi for today.”

“So early?”

“I know, right? He made me wake up at 5AM. That’s the middle of the night!”

Nicky clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “It’s morning. And I didn’t want to rush this, _hayati_. How else was I supposed to finish before sunrise service? Nile and I have been planning to go for weeks.”

“Why do people even hold service at sunrise?”

“It’s auspicious, Joe.”

“Oh,” Nile said, shaking her head.

“What?” Joe and Nicky asked, at the same time.

“No, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t have assumed. For some reason, I thought Joe would attend church, too, but-”

“No, no, I usually go!” Joe interjected. He looked over at Nicky and smiled. “I’m not as strict at keeping religious practices as Nicky is, but we’ve been sharing faiths for centuries now. We’ve prayed together at as many mosques as churches, fasted as many Lents as Ramadans. I’m just not going today. It’s been…quite a year, to say the least. I wanted to take the time to cook something special for you all, set up for a small celebration.”

“Celebration? I didn’t know you all still celebrated the holidays.”

“It varies from year to year,” Nicky spoke. “Sometimes we have a full-fledged party. Sometimes we’re on a mission, and we can barely wish each other over radio. Sometimes we visit an orphanage with gifts, or volunteer at a soup kitchen. Other times, we simply spend a few days in quiet reflection.”

“This year,” Joe added, “doesn’t feel like a party year by any stretch of the imagination. Recent events are still fresh wounds. There has been too much to mourn, of late. So we thought - why not a small observance? A nice meal, an offering of thanks that we are safe and together, gratitude for our newest family member-” Joe gave Nile a warm smile- “and a prayer that the future will be kind to us.”

Nile leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “That sounds nice.”

Suddenly, Andy materialized next to them with a disgruntled “Merry Christmas.” They all jumped.

“ _Cazzo_!” Nicky cursed, grabbing a paper towel to fix the smear of mehendi he’d accidentally streaked across Joe’s wrist.

“Good morning to you, too,” Andy smirked.

“Morning, boss,” Joe said. “Merry Christmas. Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

“Mmm. Coffee. I’ll be right back. Anyone else want?”

“I’ll have some!” Nile said as Andy walked to the kitchen. Nile turned back to Nicky and Joe. “Really, guys? Andy can still sneak up on you two after 900 years?”

Nicky gave her a _look_. “She’s Andy. She could sneak up on a ghost.”

Andy returned with two cups of coffee and plopped down onto a chair. “Nicky, your suit’s ironed for church. I took care of it last night before going to sleep.”

“You know how to iron things?” Nicky asked in mock surprise, dodging as Andy swatted him with the paper towel roll. “Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t mention it. And there’s something for you, too, Nile. Joe picked out a dress and a suit last time he was in town. He has a good eye for size, so they should fit without a problem.”

“Really?! A dress _and_ a suit?” Nile beamed.

Joe shrugged happily. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

Nicky made an irritated noise, pulling back to readjust the mehendi cone. “Joe, no shrugging. Sit still. If you move without warning one more time, I will not do the thing.”

“What thing?” Nile asked, as Joe did his best impression of a kicked puppy.

Nicky and Joe exchanged a look. Andy settled back expectantly, crossing her arms behind her head with a grin. “Oh, _this_ one’s a good story.”

___

It had been a little over four years since they’d forged a tentative peace and escaped the Crusades together. Traveling east, Yusuf and Nicolò had followed the Silk Road from Jerusalem to Kabul. Rich with natural beauty and the cultural wealth of merchants and scholars from around the world, Kabul had seemed a lovely place to retire for the autumn months. 

In these years, Nicolò reflected, they had gone from enemies to angry co-travellers to grudging allies to…friends, miraculously. The best of friends. Nicolò had picked up some Arabic, and Yusuf had picked up significantly more Genoese (Nicolò was convinced he knew Genoese from before they met). They’d shared cultures and recipes, and whatever pieces of religion they could without coming to blows over it. But what Nicolò treasured more than anything else were their late night conversations, when it was far too dark for pretences, and they lay on their bedrolls and shared stories of everything under the sun - from their families, to the war, to philosophies of life, death, and salvation.

Lately, Nicolò had started to internally obsess over the one thing they were clearly not sharing: a bed. With every passing moment, he grew more and more convinced that he had, somehow, against all his better judgment, fallen irrevocably in love with his friend. And he felt terrible about it - not because he had fallen for a man or an enemy, but because he knew Yusuf could do so much better than him. Their beautiful friendship was already much more than Nicolò deserved. To ask for love would be far too insolent. 

Every night he carefully explained this to himself, and every morning his fool heart yearned for Yusuf all over again, physically aching with the intensity of it. It was infuriating.

One morning, Nicolò walked out onto the porch of the house they were renting and found Yusuf sitting on the steps, shining ethereally as the sun’s first rays illumined the early morning mist around him. He was absorbed in an art Nicolò didn’t recognize, using a cloth tube of dark green paste as ink and his own skin as a canvas. Yusuf hummed as he worked, his soft voice inebriating as warm wine.

“What are you doing?” Nicolò heard himself ask.

Yusuf looked up at him with delight. “Nicolò! Come, sit. This is mehendi; I noticed one of the vendors at the bazaar had set up a booth, so this morning, I went and asked if she had any extra paste she would be willing to sell.”

Nicolò looked on with interest. “What does it do?”

“Do? It doesn’t _do_ anything, per se. It’s just decoration. You make patterns with the henna paste, like this-” he swirled the tip over his palm- “and you wait for it to dry. Then, you can wash it off, and it will leave a orange-red imprint behind.”

“Is it permanent?”

“Oh, no. It darkens a bit, and then fades in a few days. But it is nice while it lasts, no?”

“It’s very pretty. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“My _ammi_ taught me. It’s usually done in times of celebration, like weddings or holidays. They say this art form originated here, on the subcontinent, thousands of years ago. I was looking at some of the vendor’s work today, and the designs of this region are a little bit different from my hometown’s traditional ones. I thought it would be nice to try them out.” Yusuf gestured at a few sketches he must have borrowed from the vendor. It was clear he’d incorporated some of the elements into the design on his own hand.

“It’s really lovely,” Nicolò emphasized. He paused. “It appears you are not the least bit out of practice, although I haven’t seen you do this at all during our travels.”

“Well, I would sketch designs on parchment, sometimes. Just to practice. We were always so busy. The mehendi would fade too quickly to be worth the effort, given all the fighting and manual labor we did…” 

_We could just stay here forever_ , Nicolò wanted to say. _We could live in peace. No more fighting. I would do all the manual labor. And you could wear mehendi as often as you want_.

“Also, I didn’t- Mehendi is usually for women, you see,” Yusuf blushed, ducking his head slightly. “At least this really detailed kind. My _ammi_ taught me how to do it because I loved it so much, but others- strangers, that is- might laugh if they saw. And obviously, I didn’t want to draw attention…”

He trailed off, looking at the ground. Nicolò felt his heart clench painfully in his chest, and he was overcome with a sudden and unwarranted longing to brush his lips across the pink of Yusuf’s cheeks, the freckles of his nose, the- _Stop_ , Nicolò scolded himself. _Enough_.

Out loud, he said, “Yusuf, it suits you. This mehendi. You’re very talented. I don’t see why something so beautiful should be only for women. Especially if it is something you love so much. And as far as the opinions of strangers are concerned, nobody will laugh at you and live to tell the tale. I promise.”

Yusuf lifted his gaze up to meet Nicolò’s, eyes sparkling with something Nicolò resolutely refused to label. “Thank you, _ya qalbi_.”

Nicky smiled and stood up, making a mental note of the Arabic term so he could ask a vendor or traveller for a translation later. It was one of several words Yusuf had repeatedly refused to translate, which was so out of character and made Yusuf so deeply upset when pressed that Nicolò had stopped asking.

As he walked back into the house to arrange for breakfast, Nicolò was struck with an idea. He smiled to himself. They would be here for a few months, anyway. It would be the perfect surprise.

___

“Wow, you guys really were oblivious, huh?” Nile commented.

Nicky looked up from the mehendi, offended. “I’m telling you what is possibly the most important story of my life, and that’s what you have to say?”

“You should’ve just kissed! Then everything would be solved!”

“Ah, but it’s not always about reaching a solution, is it?” Joe reflected. “It’s about the journey. It’s how you get there. How much you are willing to give.”

“Imagine dreaming about this for _four years_ ,” Andy interjected, rolling her eyes to cover up a smile. “Modern telenovelas could never.”

“Hey!” Nicky protested. “This is real, this is our life-”

“Of course they could never,” Joe scoffed at the same time. “TV writers can’t hold a candle to the romantic dialogue my Nicky speaks.”

The couple narrowed their eyes at each other for a second, and Andy burst into laughter. 

“Wait, what happened next?” Nile asked. “What was this idea you had?”

___

That evening, Nicolò served Yusuf dinner and sat down beside him, reaching for his left hand to observe how the mehendi looked now that the paste had been washed off. Yusuf complied readily. It took Nicolò several moments of revelling in the feel of Yusuf’s hand between his own two, running his fingertips over the grooves in Yusuf’s palm and the rough skin of his knuckles, before he remembered to actually look at the design. 

“Well?” Yusuf asked, voice soft and a little hoarse. “Do you like it?”

“Yusuf, it is incredible. Such elaborate patterns, and what a gorgeous color! I love it.”

Yusuf grinned, extracting his hand from Nicolò’s grip. Nicolò, for a mortifying second, felt tears prickle in his eyes as he stared at his suddenly empty hands. Thankfully, he managed to compose himself as Yusuf asked,

“Where is your plate? Aren’t you eating?”

“Ah, actually, no. I had a little bit of work this evening. I have to meet someone at the bazaar. You’ll be okay on your own for a few hours?”

Nicolò bit his tongue. Of course Yusuf would be okay, he was not a child.

An unfamiliar expression crossed Yusuf’s face. For half a second, Nicolò imagined he looked…hurt. But then, the cheerful smile returned to Yusuf’s lips.

“Of course, _ya hayati_ , I’ll be fine. Will you return by nightfall?”

“I will certainly try.”

Nicolò went to the bazaar, which was mostly empty of customers at this hour. As the sun set, vendors were packing up their wares for the night and closing their stalls. Quickly, Nicolò located the mehendi booth and walked up to it.

Two women sat behind the stall, speaking softly with each other in a mix of Persian and another language Nicolò did not recognize. As he approached, they looked up.

“ _Ciao_!” the Persian woman greeted. “ _Parli italiano, vero_?”

“ _Sí_ ,” Nicolò responded, pleasantly relieved that he wouldn’t have to rely on his less than proficient Arabic. “I was wondering if you could teach me how to do, uh, mehendi?”

The other woman chuckled, presumably at his pronunciation, and Nicolò felt his face grow hot. The Persian woman rolled her eyes, turning to her and saying something in that unfamiliar language again. Her eyes widened, and she turned to Nicolò.

“ _Perdonami_ ,” she said, switching to Italian as well. “I did not mean to insult you with my laughter. I was simply marveling at the fact that you are the second man to come to our booth today asking for supplies or instructions. Usually, we just apply the mehendi for our customers, and they are largely women, so this is new.” She paused. “I’m Sakshi, by the way.”

“And I’m Amani,” the other woman said.

“Nicolò. It is nice to make your acquaintance. If you don’t mind me asking - what language were you speaking in, just now? Other than Persian?”

Amani smiled. “Oh, that? Sanskrit. It’s not very commonly spoken. But Sakshi is from the South, so she knows it well. She taught me, too.”

“Oh. You two seem very close,” Nicolò said before his brain could catch up to his mouth. His eyes widened. “My apologies, that was inappropriate. Forgive me.”

Sakshi leaned forward, smiling as she cocked an eyebrow “For what, being right?” 

Amani wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Sakshi is the love of my life. We don’t usually go around announcing it, but, well, you figured it out easily enough. We don’t hide it, either.”

“So tell us, Nicolò,” Sakshi began. “Why do you want to learn to do mehendi?”

Nicolò had not anticipated the question. “It’s for…someone. I want to be able to do it for someone.”

“Oh? And this wouldn’t have anything to do with, say, the man with curly hair who stopped by this morning and-”

“Sakshi!” Amani cut in. “Ignore her, please. She thinks there is only one Italian man in this whole city. Surely our customer from this morning was going on about someone else. Many people have blue-gray eyes, Sakshi. Don’t make assumptions.”

Nicolò blushed furiously. Had Yusuf been talking about him? Yusuf noticed his _eye color_?

“We will teach you,” Sakshi said, gracefully not commenting on how flustered he must have looked. “Have you any prior experience at all?”

“No,” Nicolò admitted. “This is completely new to me.”

“Well, depending on how easily it comes to you, we should be able to teach you everything in a month, give or take a week. After that, it’s just practice and innovation. Developing your style and all. You won’t need our guidance for that.” 

Nicolò nodded eagerly. “When can we start?”

The two women exchanged a glance, seemingly having an entire conversation in that shared moment. Then Amani turned to Nicolò.

“How’s tomorrow evening, same time, same place?”

___

“Aww, Nicky, it was so sweet of you to learn!” Nile exclaimed.

“Wasn’t it?” Yusuf smiled dreamily. Nicky did not look up from where he was painting careful lines onto Joe’s wrist, but his grip on the mehendi cone softened ever so slightly.

“It was very kind of Sakshi and Amani to agree to teach me. And to their credit, they did immediately see right through me. Even Amani; I believe she was just too polite to say anything,” Nicky reminisced.

“Well, you two are not exactly subtle,” Andy drawled. “Especially with Joe going around waxing poetic about the color of your eyes to total strangers.”

“They were _nice_ strangers,” Joe grumbled. “And I just mentioned Nicky in passing, I didn’t-”

Andy held up a hand to stop him. “Lost cause, Joe. Give it up.”

Nile grinned. “So, Joe. Nicky disappears every evening for a month and you somehow don’t catch on to the surprise? How does that happen?”

Joe drew a breath to speak, but Nicky got there first.

“Misunderstanding,” he muttered with a wry twist of his lips. “I’m not proud of this next part.”

“ _Amore_ , you did nothing wrong!” Joe countered passionately. “It wasn’t his fault, Nile. Let me tell it from here.”

___

The next day, Nicolò made his excuses and left Yusuf to eat dinner alone again. And the day after that. On the fourth day, Yusuf stopped him.

“Nicolò?” he asked hesitantly, as a single plate of food was set on the woven straw rug they used for dining. “Are you going out today, as well?”

Nicolò looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Yes, I had some work. Did you need me to stay?”

 _I always need you to stay_ , Yusuf thought forlornly. _I miss you whenever you are away. I loathe having to eat without you_.

“No, no,” he said aloud. “I won’t keep you from…wherever you need to be. But please, eat first? I am worried that you have gone hungry these past few nights. You will fall ill.”

Nicolò smiled gently. “Do not worry about me, Yusuf. I eat at the bazaar.”

“It is not good to eat bazaar food every day.”

“I don’t buy it there. Someone brings dinner for me. Home-cooked.”

Yusuf’s heart sank. This was what he had been afraid of, somewhere deep down. Nicolo had found someone else after all. Someone who made him dinner every night.

The feelings he had scarcely admitted even to himself came flooding to the tip of his tongue, and he bit down to avoid letting them out. But the silence clogged his throat and made him feel like he was choking on air. It was unjust on his part, he knew. He had no right to feel this way. Nicolò had never explicitly taken any romantic interest in him, and if Yusuf was a halfway decent person, he would find it in his heart to be happy for his friend.

“Yusuf?” Nicolò asked, so very gently. He reached out to tilt Yusuf’s chin up. “What happened?”

Yusuf could feel tears pooling in his eyes at Nicolò’s touch. He couldn’t let Nicolò know how he felt. He would _not_ ruin this for his best friend.

“I-” Yusuf stifled a sob, willing the tears not to spill over.

“Yusuf!” Nicolò exclaimed softly, worry and fear in his voice. “What happened, my lo- _ahem_. Yusuf. Is everything alright? Are _you_ alright?”

“I’m fine,” Yusuf said in a small voice, pulling away to hide his face in his palms. “Just…remembering my home. My family. Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No need to apologize. Here, give me one second.” Nicolò got up and walked to the front door, leaning out of it. He called out to a passer-by, fishing a handful of coins out of his pocket and handing it to them. He said something Yusuf couldn’t hear, and the stranger nodded. Nicolò thanked them and returned to Yusuf’s side. “There. I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

“Nico-”

“No, Yusuf, I’m not going. Don’t try to persuade me otherwise. Whatever work I had is not more important than you. I will stay as long as you need me.”

Had Nicolò said that just a few hours ago, Yusuf would have been delighted beyond measure. Now, he felt nothing but miserable as Nicolò murmured soothing reassurances, rubbing his back and feeding him plain rice as if he were a little child.

The next evening, too, Nicolò did not leave. The evening after that, he did. Yusuf quite inadvertently began keeping track of which nights he stayed, and which he did not. He found that Nicolò was never gone more than four days a week, and often only three; whoever this mysterious bazaar companion was, Nicolò was conscientiously making a point of spending more time with Yusuf than with them.

Yusuf wanted to tell Nicolò that he didn’t have to. He would spend day after day working up the courage to say it, but the moment Nicolò looked at him, the words would die in his throat. Yusuf had never felt so selfish and cowardly in his life. And he had never been so emotionally exhausted.

Nearly a month passed in this manner. One evening, after Nicolò left for the bazaar, Yusuf made a decision. Originally, they had planned to stay in this house in Kabul for all of autumn and possibly winter, before emigrating further East. But now, Nicolò had someone else. And because he was far too kind to ask Yusuf to leave himself, Yusuf decided that it would be best to simply move out at the end of the month. It would save them both a lot of trouble.

Yusuf spread out his prayer mat on the floor of their bedroom and knelt, asking for strength. He promised himself that he would tell Nicolò of his decision that night.

Then he lay down on his cot and cried.

Nicolò walked the well-worn path from their house to the mehendi stall, carrying a basket of baked goods he’d prepared earlier, along with a few of the most valuable pieces of jewelry he’d scavenged from rifling through his belongings that afternoon.

“What’s all this?” Sakshi asked, smiling, when she saw him.

“A humble attempt to repay you both for this past month,” Nicolò answered. “I am so, so grateful for your time and patience. And I will cherish the skill you have taught me. You both mentioned that today would be my last lesson, so,” he gently set the basket of goods onto the stall table.

“It was our pleasure,” Amani assured him. “We were not expecting any payment. But we’re honored to accept such a thoughtful gift. Thank you, Nicolò.”

Sakshi pulled out a chair for him and gestured for him to sit. “Ready for your last lesson?”

“Yes!”

“Well, it will be more of an assessment,” Amani clarified. “We will watch you apply mehendi on your own hand, and give you tips as you work. If you can do it on yourself, you will be more than capable of doing mehendi for your beloved.”

Nicolò had grown used to their good-natured teasing over the past month, but he felt his cheeks flush slightly nonetheless. He hoped with all his heart that Yusuf would like the surprise. Kneading the mehendi cone in his palm, he got to work.

Sakshi and Amani helped him along the way, and Nicolò was pleasantly surprised at how professional his mehendi looked as he began to tie up the design. Suddenly, Sakshi placed a hand on his wrist, stopping him.

“Did you know,” she informed him, “that where I’m from, it is a custom to hide the name of one’s lover in the mehendi design? Perhaps the one you go home to is familiar with that tradition.” 

“Perhaps,” Nicolò agreed, mouth suddenly dry. “Should I-”

“If you want to.”

Nicolò wanted to. He wanted to more than anything else in the world. This was it, he thought, abruptly coming to a decision. He would put Yusuf’s name in the mehendi and show him. If Yusuf picked up on it, if he responded in kind…Nicolò’s heart leapt into his throat at the mere idea of it. If Yusuf said nothing, well. Then that gave them both an easy out. Their friendship could still be salvaged, and they would never speak of it again.

“I want to,” he whispered. “Can you show me how?”

Amani chuckled. “Sakshi, he reminds me of you when you first tried to-”

“We do not speak of that day!” Sakshi insisted, blushing.

“Ah, if you say so. But I will forever treasure the memory. I hope you know that.”

Sakshi's gaze had gone soft, but she chided, “This isn’t about us, Amani! Now show Nicolò how to write ‘Yusuf’ in Arabic.” Nicolò’s eyes snapped up. He had never mentioned _who_ \- “Oh, don’t give me that look. I knew from the day you showed up.”

Yusuf blinked his eyes open as he heard the front door open and shut. He sat bolt upright in bed. Shit, Nicolò was back already. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He hadn’t even lit the evening candles yet. The house was pitch dark.

“Yusuf?” Nicolò’s voice called out. Yusuf fumbled for the matchbox and candles at his bedside, trying to create some light.

“Here!” he responded as he succeeded in striking a match. “Here, Nicolò, I’m in here…” 

Nicolò caught one glimpse of Yusuf and rushed into the bedroom, sitting next to him at the edge of his cot. He took Yusuf’s face in his hands.

“Yusuf, what happened? Your eyes, they’re all red… Were you crying? Are you alright? Did you get hurt?”

Nicolò ran his hands down Yusuf’s arms, and dammit, Yusuf felt his courage and resolve desert him like the breath leaving his lungs. There was no way he could move out. He would stay as long as Nicolò let him, even if he knew his feelings would never be reciprocated. He was willing to be absolutely pathetic about this, so long as it afforded him even one hour more with the man in front of him.

“I’m fine,” Yusuf mumbled, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“No!” Nicolò raised his voice, gripping Yusuf by the shoulders. Yusuf looked up, startled. “Please, Yusuf, it’s been _weeks_. I can’t watch you suffer like this anymore. Tell me what is bothering you. I swear I’ll do anything. Just…tell me the truth.”

Yusuf looked into Nicolò’s eyes, wild with concern and something like desperation, and he knew the time for half-truths was over. He took a deep breath.

“I’m so sorry, Nicolò. I really, really want to be happy for you. I tried, _ya amar_ , I have never tried so hard in my life as I have these past weeks, but- wait.” The flames had finally caught properly on the hastily lit candles, and Yusuf noticed the skillful mehendi ornamenting Nicolò’s left hand and forearm. He gently tugged the hand closer to the flickering light to see. “Wait a minute. What- what is this? It’s beautiful. Who did this?”

Nicolò suddenly looked very put-on-the-spot. After a moment’s hesitation, he answered,

“I did.”

“ _What_?”

“This is why I’ve been gone so much. That day, after I saw you putting on mehendi on the porch, I thought… You were telling me how much you loved it, how your _ammi_ had taught you, and I wanted to be able to give you that same happiness. I know our lives are all mixed up now, with the war, and traveling, and the whole immortality thing, and I just wanted to surprise you with an echo of your home. So I went to the bazaar and learned mehendi.”

Yusuf felt his eyes well with tears as he listened, unable to look up from Nicolò’s arm. He had never been so elated to be wrong. Suddenly, his gaze caught on a tiny string of Arabic alphabets, woven intricately into the mehendi design. He read it, once, twice, thrice. Four times. Over and over until he was convinced it couldn’t have been an accident.

“You’ve found it, haven’t you.” It wasn’t quite a question. Yusuf looked up, but Nicolò wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Well. My secret is out now, one way or another. You are, of course, free to do with it what you please.” Nicolò’s lips were pressed into a tight line. He looked away, barely breathing, as if he expected Yusuf to lash out.

“No, you don’t know,” Yusuf tried to rationalize, feeling like his brain was filled with fog. He really shouldn’t have napped. “This custom of hiding a name in mehendi, what it means. This is all very new for you. Perhaps something was lost in translation…”

Nicolò sighed, turning to look Yusuf in the eye. “I’m going to be forthright with you, because I- I don’t know how else to be. I love you, Yusuf. I love you more than life itself. I am utterly bereft without you, like a hearth filled with ashes instead of flames. If you do not feel the same way, I understand. I promise I will ask nothing of you, only that we remain traveling companions if you so wish. But I love you, I love you dearly, and I need to tell you this before the words tear my heart apart to get out.”

Yusuf gaped, wondering if he was still asleep, and if all this was but a dream. He prayed, a little madly, that he would never wake up. He opened his mouth, but it was taking considerable effort to speak.

“Do- do you mean it?” he managed to whisper around the lump in his throat.

Nicolò’s gaze softened, filled with such unmistakable love and truth that Yusuf felt like he was looking into the eyes of God.

“If only I could prove my love for you, Yusuf.”

“ _Ya qalbi_ ,” Yusuf sobbed, closing his eyes as the tears began to flow. “My heart, you already have. It is only I who could not see- I have been blind- Nicolò, please-”

“Shhh,” Nicolò soothed, gently extracting his hands from Yusuf’s grip and bringing them up to cup his face. Yusuf felt like he was drowning in the earthy scent of henna on Nicolò’s hand, in the way the not-yet-dry paste smudged a little against his cheek. “It’s alright, beloved. I’ve got you.”

“I love you. I love you, Nicolò, I love you, how can I even begin to explain-” Yusuf’s voice trembled with emotion, and he reached weakly for the man before him. “Nicolò. _Nicolò_ , I- I’m yours. Kiss me? Please?”

The smile on Nicolò’s face outshone every haphazardly lit candle in the room, and quite possibly every star in the sky as well. He leaned forward, sliding a hand into the curls at the back of Yusuf’s head and tightening his grip. Yusuf whimpered softly, eyes falling closed. Nicolò used the back of his mehendi-covered hand to tenderly brush the tears off his cheeks.

Then, Yusuf felt Nicolò’s lips on his, soft and unrelenting, and he wondered, overwhelmed, if he might just die for good. It was as though the universe had shrunk down to that one moment, that one point of contact. Nicolò half-stood from the cot and leaned over him, pressing deeper into his mouth with seemingly insatiable hunger, pulling a whine from Yusuf’s throat. Yusuf responded with abandon, hands fisted in the front of Nicolò’s tunic, chasing his lips like air.

Eventually, Nicolò pulled back, whispering Yusuf’s name against his lips, shaking with the effort of putting even this small distance between them.

“I thought you were seeing someone at the bazaar,” Yusuf confessed as soon as he could form a coherent thought. “I thought you would leave me.”

Nicolò made a pained noise. “Forgive me. Forgive me, my love, I had no idea. I would never play with your heart like that. Trust me, I beg of you. I truly did not know.”

“I do,” Yusuf said unhesitatingly. “I do trust you. More than my own self.”

Nicolò sat down next to Yusuf and gathered him into his arms. Yusuf sniffled, nuzzling into Nicolò’s neck. 

“I will strive every day to be worthy of you,” Nicolò whispered, softly stroking his hair.

After a few minutes, Yusuf picked his head up. “Nicolò?”

“Yes, my love?”

Yusuf shivered, momentarily forgetting what he had been trying to say. Hearing such open endearments from Nicolò was going to take some getting used to.

“Can you do my mehendi?”

Nicolò chuckled. “Of course. That is why I learned.”

“When?”

“Daylight? I am not nearly practiced enough to attempt it by the light of a candle. How about tomorrow morning, on the porch?”

“Mmm,” Yusuf agreed, snuggling closer. “Will you write your name in it?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Every time.”

Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “ _Every_ time?”

“Every single time.”

___

“So that,” Joe concluded, “is the ‘thing’ he’s doing now.”

Nicky smiled, eyes damp, as he wrote his own name into the mehendi design in cursive. 

Across the table, Nile sniffled. “Oh,” she said softly. “That’s…” She shook her head. “‘Beautiful’ doesn’t cut it.” 

Andy looked between the three of them fondly. “It’s Nile’s first time hearing this story, so it’s completely understandable that she’s crying. But Nicky? What is this, your 400th time?”

Nicky laughed wetly. “What can I say? My husband is a good storyteller.”

“You don’t have to be a good storyteller if the story has a protagonist like you,” Joe said, looking at Nicky with unabashed pride.

“Alright,” Nicky muttered through his smile, wiping the tip of the mehendi cone on his wrist and dropping it into a resealable bag. He leaned forward and kissed his husband gently. “You’re done, but just sit tight for half and hour before you start cooking or go back to bed. You don’t want to smear it.”

Joe grunted noncommittally, studying the newly finished pattern with open admiration.

“Nile, kiddo, get dressed. Me and you have to leave in twenty if we’re going to make it to church on time.”

“Okay!” She got to her feet and started up the stairs.

“Your new clothes are in my closet, in a shopping bag!” Joe called after her. “Can we video call Booker today?” he asked Andy.

“Obviously,” she said. “But after these two get back from church. In the meantime, Joe, can I interest you in a bake-off?”

Joe’s eyes lit up. “Oh, absolutely. You’re on.”

“How come you’re doing a bake-off without me?” Nicky complained.

Andy tutted. “It’s not official. Besides, do you want Christmas tree cookies or not?”

“…Fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this was intended to be ~1000 words, but look what happened. It was a lot of fun to write though! Hope everyone is staying safe and warm this season - sending love!
> 
> Also you guys. Listen. I was only familiar with South Asian mehendi before this, but I looked up pictures of henna tattoos from around the Middle East and North Africa and it's all absolutely gorgeous??? So amazing. I strongly encourage searching up pictures if you're curious.
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated as always! (but no pressure obviously <3)


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